


all for him with nothing in return

by songsneverend



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Gallifrey, Gen, Hurt, M/M, Time Lords, Time War, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsneverend/pseuds/songsneverend
Summary: And so they sat there, The Doctor staring at the opposite wall as he held Koschei in his arms.  The murderous, ill, utterly insane man that just kept on crying, waves of shame and anger and pain flooding off of him violently as The Doctor rocked him back and forth, shushing him, pressing his nose into his coarse blonde hair, whispering comforts.  “It’s okay, Koschei.  You’re going to get out of here.  I’ll take care of you.”





	1. Chapter 1

The second return to Gallifrey was not at all as momentous as the first one had been.  There were no ships sent out to corral him as he landed in the desert, and certainly no Rassilon.  He had made sure that that presidency had been firmly displaced, and he assumed that the General would keep things in order while they found a new one, since there was no way in hell he’d be taking up the position.  Again.  Once in a lifetime was enough, and it had been more than once now.  Another time and the sheer boredom of the position might finally put an end to him.  " _Maybe that's why they keep trying to elect me_ ," he thought with a wry chuckle.

He knew exactly where he was as he treaded down the worn, dirt path, snaking through the rocky canyon with his sunglasses perched on his hooked nose.  Before the War, such a long time ago, it had been part of a forest, and this very path had been used by the Outsiders to bring goods to the Citadel, to sell to anyone who was adventurous enough to try some vegetation or meat that hadn’t been processed to death. 

Now it was probably used for carting dead bodies out to mass graves, or for the very limited relief efforts sent intermittently and hesitantly to the Gallifreyan populace that didn’t live inside any of the domed cities.  Because, of course, they didn't matter, as Rassilon had put it.  He could only hope that the people who ruled Gallifrey now would be a bit kinder.

The Doctor didn’t see a soul on his walk.  No, there were no signs of life until he entered Low Town.  The signs of war were much more apparent down here, in the shade of the dome, than they had been up with the High Council and the elite of Gallifrey.  Buildings lay in shambles across the streets, and through those streets wandered people, children, some still sporting smarting wounds from their houses tumbling down on top of them, or Dalek weaponry going off in their faces.  It had been months, but dead bodies lined the streets, covered in bedsheets and towels, only just pulled from the rubble.

Pity tugged at his hearts as the gazes of whoever he passed by fell on him, inquiring, some even recognizant of who he was, but no one tried to stop him as he made his way through military checkpoint after military checkpoint with fluid ease, normally with a toothless grin or a flash of his psychic paper, though neither was necessary, before finally coming to the elevator up into the Citadel itself, in the heart of the town sheltered, though apparently not well enough, by it.

No words were exchanged between him and the guards as he peered at them overtop his glasses, and then passed by, stepping into the medically clean capsule, and shuffling his feet as he began his ascent.  

Of course a car was waiting for him, as even the General couldn’t get by without treating him like he was some kind of royalty, which he _wasn't_.  He had wanted to walk, but pausing to think for a moment, he acknowledged the driver with a dip of his head and slid inside.  Better safe than sorry, and even with the worst parts of the High Council and Rassilon himself gone, there were still a lot of people on this planet who wanted him dead.  Surprisingly, if you fought in a prominent position in a war, a lot of people blamed you personally for their dead family members.  Big shocker there.

The car ride was short, and he leaned his gray head on the vibrating window for most of it, twirling his sunglasses in his spindly fingers at the glistening towers of Gallifrey’s proudest city whizzed by.  It was so much cleaner up here that you almost forgot there had been a war.  Until, at least, you noticed the distinct lack of people, and remembered that half of the planet’s population had been wiped off of the map, or you saw the gaping hole in the dome, where a Dalek ship had broke through the sky trenches and then the dome, skidding down the main street before imploding, taking a building and five hundred civilians with it.  He had been there that day.

To his surprise, once they had arrived at the Capitol's government headquarters, the General had come down to the garages to meet him.  She was wearing much more casual dress than she had been the last time he’d seen her, or at least as casual as his people got, which was a robe and one of those god-awful collars that they fastened onto them.  Their greetings were formal, the customary bow, and then a handshake which he all but forced her into, a much more human thing than a Time Lord one.  They weren’t a touchy people.

“You know, I could have you arrested for shooting me,” she gibed once they were away from prying ears, hands clasped tightly behind her back as they headed down a windowless hall.

He chuckled drily, glancing down at her, for a moment not sure if he was serious.  But, the small smile that had managed to tug up the corners of her mouth told him that she was indeed joking.  “Yes, but that wouldn't be fun for either of us,” he shot back.

Idle conversation filled the rest of their stroll, interrupted frequently by brisk jogs up the stairs, or rides up elevators, or stops at what seemed to be dozens of security checkpoints.  She apologized repeatedly that they hadn’t flown him in to save him, and her, the climb, but informed him he had made it quite difficult by parking out in the Badlands and requesting to walk.  They didn't have enough cruisers to spare to send one out  _there_ again.

But, they made it up to the meeting room of the High Council in one piece, albeit a little bit winded, a more serious nature falling back over the both of them as the General pushed open the double doors, and let him in.  

Seated around the table were all Lords and Ladies knew, from all the way back to when he was a boy, to people he had just met during the Time War.  None seemed very pleased to see him, which was the usual.  Even the familiar old woman that he chose to take a seat next to, turning to look at her with a soft, “Hello,” looked a little bit testy as the General began to speak in the background.

There was a moment of silence in which the two of them just stared at each other, him expectantly and her in an unreadable state, before she dipped her head, and greeted in a cool tone, “Theta.  I’m glad you’re well.”

“Yeah, you too,” he replied thin hands fumbling with the lapel of his jacket before tapping on his knees, his body already bored of sitting still, “you know, last time I saw you you were getting thrown back into Gallifrey’s burning ruins.  Talk about ending on a sour note.”  

A shush came from somewhere across the table, but was unheeded by the both of them.  “If that’s your way of asking if I was okay, I was,” she informed, voice low, “Rassilon was angry enough to kill, but I think it’s safe to say that Koschei was angrier.”  

That made The Doctor stop his fidgeting, eyes darting down to his knees.  Koschei, also known as The Master, and currently known as Missy.  He hadn’t seen her since Skaro.  He didn’t want to see her.  The space that had been left by all memories of Clara being ripped away from him was still raw.  She’d only exacerbate it, and with delight too.  “Koschei killed him,” he finally said, staring down at the table, brow furrowed, “where are they at now, then?”  

Another shush.  “Incarcerated.  In the building, actually.  He has been since he strangled Rassilon with his bare hands in front of half of the High Council.”

A shiver ran from the top of the Doctor’s head down to the base of his spine.  Oh, so this had to be before Missy came along, in the Master’s personal timeline at least, she were saying _he_.  But if he was in jail, then…  oh.  “In the building,” he repeated, pressing his boots into the floor as he began to get up.

“Theta,” she said, a more commanding tone creeping into her voice, “I don’t think that whatever you’re thinking is a good - “

“General?” The Doctor was calling, halfway out of his seat, hands gripping the armrests as he pushing the chair back with his heels, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have to use the little Time Lord’s room.  I’ll be back.  Sorry everyone, sorry.”  He held up his hands as he got to his feet, patting the woman’s shoulder and whispering, “Sorry, mum.  I know, the family disappointment.  I'll come back later, I promise.”

The General, of course, did not protest, but looked pissed enough as he strolled by her, spreading his hands and shrugging with a, “How long did you expect me to be able to pay attention?”  He didn't get an answer.

Now, he came to the part where he had to try to remember how to get down to the jail.  This main building had been his tramping grounds as a boy and as a young man, but he had been a young man a very long time ago.  Plus, this place was the size of the House of Parliament twenty times over.

But, though it had been a long time, his memory served him well.  People here were apparently less likely to stare and more likely to confront him though, stopping in the hallway and gawking, calling out his name, or flat out pointing and he ducked through groups of people, eventually finding a stairwell.  The lock required some sonic-ing, but after that he had a free and clear path down to the bowels of the Citadel.

The cleanliness of the whole place became worse and worse as he descended the stairs, bulbs burnt out and litter in the corners at every turn.  It was disgusting, frankly, but a good metaphor for the state of his people in general, if he did say so himself.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, or what in reality was about ten minutes of descending stairs, he came to floor B4, or the Containment Level.  He hadn’t been down here in years, though he wasn’t surprised that he had to sonic this lock too.  If they were keeping The Master in here, who knew what else was inside?

The guard was spooked, naturally, as he appeared out of the door.  “Who are you?” he barked, before his eyes widened in recognition, and he lowered his weapon, stammering, “Doctor, my Lord, I’m sorry…”  Oh, and now he was bowing.  The Doctor grimaced, holding out both hands and shaking them, trying to tell him to stop doing that.  The bowing thing was so overrated, always had been.  It was so groveling.

“No, no, stop that.  I just need you to show me where they’re keeping The Master.”

That sure made the young guard snap out of his stooped position rather quickly.  “The Master, my Lord?”  His pale face was stretched in surprise, mouth forming an ‘o’ as he stared at The Doctor, who was beginning to wonder if the man was hard of hearing.

He just nodded, prompting, “Yes,” moving his hands to indicate that they should be walking, quickly, before he changed his mind and scurried back upstairs, forgetting that The Master was even down here.  He just had to make sure that he was okay.

There was a brief pause between the two of them, a bit of tension seeming to crackle in the air.  “Okay,” the guard finally said, straightening the whole way up and puffing his chest, like he was trying to make himself look bigger.  Now that The Doctor was looking around, he could see that the man seemed to be the the only guard here, and thus the one in charge.  He was so young too, but then again, everyone else was dead, so…

The Doctor followed him down the long, dingy white hallway, past the windowless dingy white doors, and the florescent lightbulbs that buzzed in the silence, the only other noise punctuating it was their footsteps.

“Um,” the guard began to explain, breaking the silence as they rounded a corner, “you should know, he’s not well…”   He had stopped now, pulling out an electronic device that served as a digital keyring, in this case for all the cells in the man’s jurisdiction.  The door they had stopped in front of was plain, labelled by a number and nothing more.

“Trust me, you don’t need to tell me that,” The Doctor said, watching as the door was unlocked, and as the young guard swung it open.  In his immediate view was a white room to match the white halls, and a toilet.  “You don’t need to come in.”

The guard murmured something about waiting outside, and The Doctor stepped into the cell, glancing around as the door was shut behind him with a whir.  Along with the toilet there was only one other piece of furniture, that being a bed, and on that bed was a blanket, molded over the shape of a body laying on its side.  That body was eerily still, no stir of movement perceivable as The Doctor came to a stop over him.

“Master.”

No response.  Now that he was close, he could see the swath of brown-blonde hair, and the face of the man he called both enemy and friend poking from beneath the blanket, breath faintly moving the fabric.  At least he wasn’t dead, but his eyes were closed.  A twinge of annoyance twisted in The Doctor's gut as he stared down at him and received no response.  If he was just being difficult...  no, he had to stop and take a deep breath.  This wasn't Missy yet.  This was the man who had saved his life, and the lives of everyone on Earth.  He would try again, nicely.

“Koschei.”

Still no response.  The Doctor, another shiver working its way down his body, leaned over his, gently putting the back of his hand on his forehead.  He was feverish, burning even.  Another thrill of dread ran through his as he sat, gently maneuvering his friend’s thin body so his head was resting on his thigh, facing the ceiling.  “Koschei,” he prompted again, more roughly, desperately, as his spindly fingers pushed some of the blonde hair out of his face.  What had they done to him?  What he done to himself?  He could feel his friend's bones jutting into his legs.  He was so damn thin, and for a second, he wondered if he'd just sat down on The Master's deathbed.

But, this utterance of the man’s name got a response.  He stirred, head shaking slightly, lips working as dark eyes open, and blearily fixed themselves on the Doctor’s own.  For a moment, there was no recognition in them, only surprise and maybe fear.  A noise of surprise worked its way out of the back of the Time Lord’s throat, hoarse as he fruitlessly tried to struggle away from The Doctor, barely moving, though his chest fluttered up and down rapidly.  But, this little movement seemed to wind him, and he wheezed softly, eyes screwing shut as he tried to fight his way away.

“Master, Koschei, stop, stop,” The Doctor said, his large hand gently pushing on his old friend’s shoulder so that he was resting on the bed again, “ssh.”  He worked his spindly fingers through the swath of blonde hair again, trying to comfort, but worried that he was being too rough.  These hands were made for strumming the metal strings of a guitar, for hitting, for building, for hard things, not to soothe, not to show that he meant no harm.

Searching those dark eyes for recognition, he found none, only fear and confusion as The Master continued to try and croak out words, beads of perspiration appearing on his hairline as he tried to get up again, another wheezing sound coming from deep in his chest as The Doctor once again made him lay back, thin lips trembling.

“Koschei, listen, stop.  It’s me,” he began, holding the man’s hand now..  It felt tiny between both of his.  “It’s Thete.  I’m not going to hurt you.  I’m not going to let them hurt you.”  The shivers running down his back were a mix of dread, sadness, and anger now.  There was a bit of disgust too, disgust that he had to know someone who was personally being screwed over by his home world to get this angry, but it was pushed down by everything else.  He was going to wring the neck of whoever had left him in this state after he had, arguably, done something good for Gallifrey, even if he had quite the track record preceding it.

The Master had stopped struggling now, eyes glistening with wetness, from fever and maybe from tears, as he stared upwards.  “Doctor,” he finally managed, lips trembling, voice hoarse as though he hadn’t used it in months, “Doctor.”  It was definitely tears.  Prodding gently at the man’s mind, the Doctor could feel the fear and frustration seeping from him, the pain he was in, the confusion.  Yet, The Master felt like as much like a trapped animal as ever, mind racing and prodding right back at his, surprisingly strong for his physical state.

“Doctor,” he said again, snapping the telepathic connection like a branch underfoot, shaking with effort as The Doctor let him grip at his arms, lips pressing together for a moment before he whispered, “help me.”  A wave of shame that would've been palpable even without physical touch filled the room, and The Doctor felt bile rise in his throat.  Not at his friend's plea, but what had reduced him to this.  God, Koschei.

And so they sat there, The Doctor staring at the opposite wall as he held Koschei in his arms.  The murderous, ill, utterly insane man that just kept on crying, waves of shame and anger and pain flooding off of him violently as The Doctor rocked him back and forth, shushing him, pressing his nose into his coarse blonde hair, whispering comforts.  “It’s okay, Koschei.  You’re going to get out of here.  I’ll take care of you.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor, and his mother, and the General had a long, heated argument before he’s even given a stack of papers to begin to free The Master.  With Rassilon gone, there was really nothing keeping him in his cell but his reputation and a big steel door, being that the crime and punishment had been entirely controlled by the former President.  His dying wish, evidently, had been that the man strangling him, The Master, was incarcerated for the rest of his natural life.

It was just too bad that none of the High Council members that had watched had been brave enough to step forward and stop the murder, because really, what did the dying wish of a murderer upon another murderer matter?  Rassilon wasn't here to enforce it.

“Doctor,” The General tried to lecture, her face set in a deep grimace that even rivaled his own, practiced one, “I know that The Master was your friend, colleague, and partner, but you have to understand that he’s dangerous, and he did commit a crime, and as acting President of Gallifrey I must insist that you-“

“My Lady President, with all due respect,” The Doctor began, not much respect due at all, since he was frankly seething at this point, pacing the room like an animal, “I have known the man that you are keeping prisoner a lot longer than you have.  And frankly, in my opinion, he did us all a favor by choking the life out of Rassilon.  Now, he may damn well be dangerous, and he may be mad, but he is my friend, and I think all three of us know that I don’t need your approval to find some way to take him out of here.”

That, of course, didn’t really expedite the process.  If anything, it made it longer, and it didn’t help that his mum sat by his side and tried to talk to him as he signed paper after paper in shaky Gallifreyan scrawl, mumbling curses under his breath.

They wanted him to swear and sign off on the fact that he would watch him and make sure that he didn't cause any damage to anything, living and not-living.  Like The Doctor didn't already do that on a weekly basis.  They also wanted him to swear to " _mercifully and quickly put an end to his life_ " if he tried anything and The Doctor couldn't stop him by " _non-violent means that would cause no further damage to persons or places on the planet of Gallifrey_."  He would do none of this, but if signing all of this bullshit was what he had to do to get Koschei out, he would do it.

“Theta, if you need a place to stay once this is all done…”

“Last time I checked, my house was still standing, and the TARDIS is always a perfectly viable option, mother,” he grumbled, rubbing a hand through his curls as the clock ticked on.  “But, thank you."

Around three hours later, after turning everything in in the official manner to a clerk, and hiking back down the prison, he was escorted back into The Master’s cell, finding that the man hadn’t moved from the position he had left him in, tucked neatly into his blanket and facing the door, curled in on himself.  It made the Doctor’s hearts clench again, and his mouth dry up, but he felt a bit better knowing that he could take him and go with no repercussion, well, as long as he stayed on Gallifrey.

He softly walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out, placing the back of his hand on The Master’s temple, and saying softly, “Koschei.  I told you I would come back.”

It took a moment, but his eyes opened.  There was no physical reaction beyond that, just a small mental tug that felt like gratitude, and a quiet plea to leave as quickly as possible.  The Doctor smiled softly, letting it drop after a moment, knowing that there was no point in trying to be chipper when he was so troubled.  “Alright,” he finally said, removing his hand from The Master’s head as he began to help him up, “can you walk?  I thought we could stay in my old place…”

“…so what’s wrong with him?”

The Doctor pushed himself up from where he had been leaning on the wall, as an actual medical doctor exited the room, well, his room, or what had been his room when he’d lived here, and for a short time, it had actually been _their_ room.  Not the medical professional, no, no, The Master. 

He'd never met this lady in his life.

The woman sighed softly, facing The Doctor, cloth bag swinging in her hands as she began, “His regeneration.  I’m sure you’re aware, but it was incomplete and, well, unnatural.  His entire cellular structure is unstable, and he’s, well, he’s-“

“Dying,” The Doctor finished, “he’s dying.”  

“Yes.” 

Was she scared to tell him?  Studying her, taking her body language into account, he decided on yes.  Her hands were white, gripping the metal handles of the bag.  He knew that The Master was too ill to be very frightful, so she must’ve been scared of him.  He’d forgotten what it was like, to be him and to be back at home.  Frankly, this was why he hadn’t come back sooner.  He hated the feeling of people being scared of him, because of what he’d done here.

“But you can fix him?  You can force a regeneration?”

“No,” she replied, lips pursing so tightly that they were barely even visible, “that would possibly end the cycle all together, and he’d burn himself out in one try, possibly regenerate one more time, or never regenerate again.  The safest option we have is to naturally let him burn this one out, and he’ll most likely be able to enjoy the rest of this cycle without any further complications.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, naturally.  The Doctor, however, nodded, titling his head to one side and studying the dusty floor.  “Okay,” he finally said, “and what can I do to help him?”  He was trying to remain calm, he really was, and he wasn’t mad at this woman, but god, his hands were shaking against his thighs, and a knot was forming in the back of his throat.  He just needed to keep breathing, but keeping up his cool exterior wasn’t always easy, especially nowadays, alone.

She had stopped shaking so much, he noticed, maybe seeing that he was just as scared as she was.  After a second of silence, she gave him a soft nod, and a tiny smile, “Make him comfortable.  Make him happy.  Call me when you think he's going.”

“Thank you,” The Doctor said, dragging his eyes to meet hers with a fake, toothless smile, “I’ll do my best.  Come on, let me show you the way out…”

“…side there’s some trees around here, you know.  Silver, just like when we were children.  I didn’t think there was a tree left on the planet in all honesty, but I guess I was wrong.”

The Master was propped up on a pile of pillows nearly as big as his thin body was, The Doctor sat on the edge of the bed, feeding him the Gallifreyan equivalent of gruel, which was all he could dredge up without having to call someone for groceries first.  For now, he wanted to be left alone.  He wanted them both to be left alone. 

“You’re wrong a lot,” The Master informed between greedy bites continuing as he made deliberate eye contact, teeth clicking on the spoon, “this is cute.”  His eyes had brightened since he’d gotten here, and he was certainly more alert, but The Doctor attributed that to the cocktail of medications he’d been pumped with, and had been given in rattling metal bottles, with instructions to The Doctor to give him more daily.

“How’s it cute?” The Doctor replied, poking at his smirking lips with another spoonful like he was a child.  He finally ate it, clearly enjoying holding the spoon in his mouth for just a bit too long before letting go, still smiling as he chewed and swallowed.  The Doctor was glad he was feeling better, honestly, he was, and as much as it annoyed him, he was quickly realizing that he was missing his old friend's tamer antics, in this regeneration or not.  He wouldn’t say it, though.

It didn't have to be said.

The Master took his damn time chewing, and after he swallowed, he suddenly reached up and took the bowl and spoon from the glowering Doctor’s hands.  Oh yes, it was really _adorable_.  “It’s cute because you never bothered to ask me if I could use my arms.”

It was hours later and growing dim outside when the effects of the drugs began to wear off.  The Doctor tediously dragged The Master through getting a bath, eating another meal, and putting on some clean clothes before getting him back into bed, tucking him in like you would a small child, now that he was too weak to use his arms or his legs again.  He was drifting from him now, and he could tell, but The Doctor still put one hand on the side of his face before asking, shaking his slightly, “Koschei.  Do you want me to stay with you?”

A pause, and then a grunt, as he shook his head no.  

The Doctor bit at the inside of his cheek, eyes darting to the bedside table before he looked back at him, nodding.  “Okay.  I’ll be across the hall if you need anything.”  He paused, stroking his thumb down his jutting cheekbone before he leaned forward, kissing his forehead, “Sleep well, friend.”

He stood up, walking out of the room and straight across the passage, into the room that had been his brother’s when they were boys.  He hadn’t been inside since they’d gotten here, and he didn’t look around, kicking his boots off and flopping onto the bed in the dark.  He would’ve liked to at least contemplate this new situation for a moment, but somewhere in between that thought and the next, he fell asleep.

The Doctor had no idea what time it was when he was awoken by a sound, but it was still dark.  He grunted, flipping himself out of bed and turning on the lamp with some difficulty.  It wasn’t from his immediate area.  This place was just full of the books that Braxiatel hadn’t wanted to take with him when he’d moved out.  He sat there in the silence, hands gripping his knees as he pulled at the fabric of his trousers and listened.  A minute went by, then another, and then a strangled cry erupted from outside.  

He was up and out of the room in a flash, into the next even quicker, as his feet skidded on the floor while he flipped the light on.  He found, to his horror, The Master, tangled in his sheets on the floor.  Blue, electric energy crackled off of his skin as he twitched, head lolling and eyes disappearing into the back of his head.  Running forward, The Doctor scooped him up, placing him on the bed.  He was still convulsing, clearly having some sort of seizure.

"Koschei, you're going to be okay, Koschei..."  He spoke other comforts that he knew were lies.  He wouldn't be okay for awhile.  He was dying.  His entire body was working against him, killing him slowly.  

But the seizure didn’t last long, and when it was over, The Doctor cautiously crawled over the other man, flipping him onto his side and laying on his own.  They were uncomfortably close, at least for The Doctor, as he watched The Master’s eyelids flutter a couple of times and then fall closed.  And The Doctor stayed there, watching him breath in and out again, and again, and again, until he finally dozed off, forehead dipping and touching the other man's.  He didn't hear too much, both of their minds too exhausted, but maybe a mutual idea between the two of their sleep muddled minds was...

Safe.


	3. Chapter 3

After that first night, the two of them fell into a pattern.  Monotony did not suit The Doctor, and it didn’t suit The Master either, even as he spent most of his days wracked with pain enough to confine him to bed, curled in on himself.  When he was well enough to be up, he spent his time pestering The Doctor to take him somewhere.  The Time Lord kept his word that he wouldn’t take him off planet though, for the safety of everyone, apparently.

It wasn’t safe to go out and walk the streets either.  Not for the safety of others, but for the safety of the two of them.  The Doctor might have saved Gallifrey, but there were still plenty of people that wanted him dead.  And The Master?  Well, there weren’t just plenty of people who wanted him dead.  Everyone wanted him dead.

It had been two human weeks to the day since The Doctor had gotten here and gotten The Master free.  The time was midday, and The Doctor was sat in an old leather armchair, nose in a book with the curtains pulled tight across the windows.  The Master laid across from him on the couch, blanket pulled over his thin shoulders.  His gaze burned into the back of the book, but so far The Doctor had managed to ignore it, or at least to appear like he was doing so.

“Doctor,” groaned The Master after another moment, shifting.  The Doctor didn’t look up.  He was going to say the same thing he always said, something about how he was bored and how he wanted to go out and how one trip couldn’t hurt and how The Doctor was just no fun anymore.

“Doctor, I want to go and see my daughter.”

Oh.  Now, he hadn’t expected that.  In fact, it startled him so much that he actually put the book down, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward.  “You want to go and see your daughter?” he repeated, wondering if this older body was losing its hearing.

The Master’s teeth grated, jaw working back and forth as his nose twitched in discomfort.  “Yeah,” he choked out.  The Doctor knew for a fact that The Master hadn’t talked to his child in centuries.

In all honesty, The Doctor knew that he had been more of a father to the girl than his friend ever had been.  “Why now?” he finally asked.  He wasn’t even sure if she was still alive.  A lot of people weren’t.  The Doctor knew that The Master was only going to get worse if they found out that she was gone.  He had tried to be a good father, he had tried for a long time, but to no avail.  It just hadn’t been in him.

Koschei was missing a lot of different pieces.   One of those pieces was paternal instinct.  But The Doctor had made up for it with his own.  It had only helped the child though, not the father.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, shaking his head, “just, Doctor, can you just take me before I change my mind?”  His face contorted, lips working together as he ran his hands through his hair and then downwards so they were steepled in front of his mouth, muffling the sound as he finished, “Please.”

The Doctor sighed, tearing his gaze away from the man as he thought, mirroring him as he resting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands in front of his mouth.  All they would have to do was go out, look up some records; it would take an hour at most to find out where she was.  Part of him knew that it was better to say no, to be cruel and to not let The Master get the idea that he could order him around.  But, the part of him that pitied the dying man won out, and off they went.

The Master wore his sunglasses as they drove, head resting on the window.  He tapped on his thigh with one hand, blessedly beating out something other that wasn’t in four count.  The Doctor, who was trying to glance at him as covertly as possible, questioned, “Are you sure you alright?”

The tapping stopped, and The Master sighed, tilting the glasses downwards and looking over at him as they rolled to a stop outside of the courthouse.  “Every time you ask me that, I get just a little bit closer to offing myself.  That would get it over with,” he quipped, opening the door and getting out.  The Doctor didn’t say anything as he saw his legs shake as he braced himself on it, breathing heavy as his gaze and The Doctor’s met for a second.  He slammed the door with a bit of extra force.

A nervous, yet professional clerk was cordial enough as The Master supplied his daughter’s birth name, typing on the screen in front of him.  Minutes later they had a printed out recount of her recent known history.  The Master wouldn’t let The Doctor see it as he stood there, eyes darting from right to left and back again as he scanned the page.

It was obvious what it told him.  Shaking hands clenched around the paper, balling it up and throwing it onto the floor in a fit of rage as he headed for the door, fingers raking through blonde hair and curses in Gallifreyan and English flying from his mouth.  The Doctor followed after, scooping the paper from the floor as he darted across the room and through the doors.  “Koschei!”

He found the man leaned against the side of the car, very poorly fighting back tears as his knees quaked.  It was a second later when he collapsed onto his side, half off the curb as The Doctor came to a halt over him, bending down and taking his shoulders, pulling him up.  “Come on, Koschei.  I’m sorry, but you have to get up.  Come on, get up…”

Maybe leaving The Master alone after that hadn’t been a good idea, but the man had been in no way stable enough to go back and collect anything.  So, The Doctor had half-walked, half-dragged him into his room as they both cried, and sat him down on the bed, holding his hands tightly as he repeated a few times, “Stay here.  Don’t move.  Don’t do anything stupid.  I’ll be back.”

And soon enough he was, a bag of the daughter’s surviving belongings in hand.  He shut the door, breathing deeply as he locked it, peering up the stairwell.  All was quiet, and he headed up, making his way down the hall before rapping his knuckles on the door.  There was no answer, but he stepped in side anyways.  The Master was more or less where he had left him, except laying back, hands on his stomach as he stared at the ceiling.

The Doctor walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed, peering at his friend before reaching across him and depositing the bag on the nightstand.  It didn’t contain much, a brooch, one or two books…  “They gave me everything they had,” he explained in the silence, “since you’re her only surviving relative, it’s yours now.”

No response.  For a minute, they sat there.  The Master still hadn’t moved, eyes focused on the ceiling.  The Doctor was the one to speak, shifting where he sat.  “I’m going to make dinner.  Do you want any?”  Once again, no response, and they fell back into monotony.

Dinner was made, and only eaten by The Doctor as he read.  It was quiet for another few hours before he got himself up, stretching as he headed back up the stairs to make sure that his friend had taken his medication.  Thankfully, he had moved at least a bit, resting up against the headboard, eyes closed.  The Doctor drew closer, sitting beside him.  “Master.”

A pause, and then the man’s eyes opened.  They were vacant but he sat forward, breath brushing against The Doctor’s face cheek as he said slowly, “I love it when you say my name.”  

The Doctor froze, eyes narrowed as The Master drew closer, hand cupping the side of his face.  And then, slowly, he kissed him.  His touch was fluish, lips dry.  “Master,” The Doctor said, trying to sound stern as he turned his head away, “you’re sick.”  That didn’t seem to deter him though.  He cut The Doctor off, kissing him again, this time a bit more desperately.  He tasted like salt and medicine, both of his hands on The Doctor’s head now, working their way through his hair.

It took The Doctor a second to realize he had been kissing him back, nearly as desperately as the other man had been.  He grimaced, inwardly cursing himself as he broke away.  “Master,” he repeated, voice in a low growl this time, “stop it.  You’re sick.”

“That’s what you love about me,” The Master insisted, grabbing at his hair, his clothes, his skin, hands too shaky to do much more than that.  “Doctor, I need to feel something other than this.  I need to feel something, anything, please, come on, please…”  They ended up in a tangle, The Master bent forward, arms wrapped loosely around The Doctor with his head resting on his chest. 

Shakily, The Doctor began to untangle the two of them, working his way out of the man’s grasp.

“Master,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around him and holding him to his chest, “you know I can’t.”  He respected him too much for this to happen.  He wasn’t in his right mind.  There had been a time when they had been together, but now he had a duty of care, and he always took that duty very seriously.  This could only hurt him.

And, for the second time today, his friend was crying, face buried in his shoulder.  The Doctor rocked him back and forth like he was a child, carefully taking him with as he scooted onto the bed, leaning on the headboard as he held Koschei to him, nose and mouth buried in his dirty hair as he kissed the top of his head.

“Both of our families are dead,” The Master informed after a minute, as if the thought had just occurred to him.  

“I know,” The Doctor informed right back, comfortingly rubbing his hand on The Master’s chest.  The man’s breathing was heavy, like he was having trouble, so he sat the two of them up a bit more, carefully.  “We have each other.”

The Master laughed, making The Doctor’s hand pause for a moment.  “For now,” the Time Lord nearly whispered, “you’ll leave, Doctor.  You always do.  If you didn’t we’d probably kill each other.”  He laughed again like it was the funniest thing in the world, chuckling breaking down into a cough as The Doctor began to rub his chest again.

“Maybe I won’t this time,” he mused, not even trying to deny that he had left before when arguably, he could have stayed.  

“Don’t lie to me,” The Master murmured, head rolling so that his cheek was resting on The Doctor’s chest, “you’re an awful liar.  Always have been.”

The Doctor hummed in the back of his throat, in agreement with him.  He was an awful liar, and they both knew that eventually, The Doctor would have to go.  But for now, even if it was hard, he could stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop updating at five in the morning. And not spellchecking.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the news of his daughter’s death, The Master’s health actually seemed to be on an uphill climb.  He went from only emerging from his room once or twice a day to get food or to prod at The Doctor’s patience to tailing the other Time Lord like a shadow.  He gabbed relentlessly about this and that, tinkered with whatever electronics he could get his hands on…

It was almost like having the man he’d known so long ago back.  This was a more sedate version of The Master, and though still mischievous, he hadn’t actually tried anything villainous.  It made The Doctor simultaneously nervous and happy.  Happy because, well, he loved Koschei, and he wanted to see him well, but nervous because this was also The Master, and The Master, as much as The Doctor liked to deny it, was a very dangerous man.  He always had some kind of trick up his sleeve.

“What are you doing?”

Today was much like the day that they had gone to find out about the death of The Master’s daughter, actually.  The Doctor was sat in his chair, skimming over a book with the blinds drawn closed.  Beams of sunlight filtered in, dancing off of the floors and walls.  They took his attention away from his reading, and he reached out, letting the ones that touched the arm of his chair flicker over his fingers and make new shapes, before he took his hand away and let them rest again.

He hadn’t realized that The Master was watching, leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, dark brow knitted together.  The Doctor paused, putting the book down on his thigh as he looked over at him.  “Reading,” he informed, sitting up straight, “do you need something?”

That sounded ruder than he’d intended it to, but The Master seemed unfazed, dark eyes hidden behind a thin-lipped grin, which slowly worked its way onto his features.  “I need you to come with me,” he said, moving in one fluid motion to the side of the chair, plucking the book off of The Doctor’s lap and holding it behind his back.

“Master,” The Doctor huffed, “stop it, give it back.”  He got to his feet, taking a step towards the other man, who stepped back in turn, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face as he hopped from one foot to the other.

“You can read when we get there!” he chirped, taking another slow step backwards before turning, taking off at full speed down the hall, laughing like they were Time Tots playing again.

The Doctor huffed, not giving The Master the satisfaction of him actually running after him for a book of all things.  “Get where?” he yelled, not receiving a reply as The Master ducked into the kitchen.  He was well aware that the man knew that it was a bad idea for the two of them to go anywhere right now.

“What are you-!” he rounded the corner into the kitchen, breaking off and scanning the scene.  The Master stood there, book in one hand, and a wicker picnic basket in the other.  That shit-eating grin seemed infinitely more soft to him suddenly, and almost hopeful.  The Doctor felt that tender spot in his hearts being poked out again, a spot that seemed to be specifically reserved for Koschei as of late.  “Oh, a picnic?  That’s very domestic.”

“This is very domestic in general,” The Master scoffed, taking a couple of steps forward until they were uncomfortably close, peering up at him with those dark eyes.  “Come on, Doctor.  Let me have a little fun.”

Oh, he should’ve said no, but as usual, he couldn’t quite manage it.  “Fine.  Fine,” he finally agreed, running his hands down his face and through his hair.  He knew it was a bad idea, but he would give The Master the benefit of the doubt.  He was feeling good.  He wanted to let him have some fun, well, while he could.

“Great!” The Master exclaimed, shoving the book back into The Doctor’s hands as he looped his free arm with the other man’s, a grin spread across his face.  The Doctor grimaced, but allowed himself to be walked back towards the front of the house.  “You’re not very touchy in this regeneration.”

No, he wasn’t.  He didn’t necessarily despise touch, but he didn’t always want it, especially unexpectedly, and this was definitely that.  “Does that bother you?” he asked as they made it out the front door.  The old house was outside of the city, starkly visible in what was now a bombed out desert.  There was no car waiting, so The Doctor could only assume that the two of them were walking.

“No,” The Master replied, walking the two of them around the side of the house, towards the mountains.  He was even walking better, back no longer stooped and steps no longer shaky.  Every uphill had a downhill though.  “I mean, I would love it if you were, Doctor, really, but I understand!  You’re getting older, and sometimes when you start getting older, you know…”

“Stop it!” The Doctor sighed, rolling his eyes and jostling the other man with his shoulder, “you're over a thousand years old and you still make jokes like we're in Academy.”  He hoped that the flush across his cheeks wasn’t visible, and he turned his head away, pulling his sunglasses out of his pocket and popping them on.

The Master nudged him back.  “Well, I had to think about something while I was in captivity to keep me, uh, _stimulated_ ,” he quipped, looking back up at The Doctor.

The Time Lord knew that he was just trying to get a reaction, so he said nothing.  He listened to his boots crunch on the sun-baked earth, and glanced up to the orange and blue sky.  Everything was the same shade of burnt down here, the silver trees short and sparse.  Part of him wished he could take The Master somewhere more beautiful.  Most of him knew that he couldn’t.

They walked in silence the rest of the way, listening to the wind and sound of some carrion birds in the distance.  “You see that tree?” The Master asked after another ten minutes, pointing to an unusually large one with their joined arms, “that’s where we’re going.”  He must've decided that on a whim, but The Doctor didn't put up much of a protest as they made a b-line towards it.

When they arrived, The Master hastily sat down in the shade, his back to the old thing’s bark and the basket on his legs.  The Doctor wormed his way into a neighboring clump of twisted roots, sitting with his back to the trunk and his arm resting on an especially big root that almost acted as a barrier in between him and The Master.

“What, don’t want to sit by me?” The Master asked as he flipped open the basket, pulling out what he could only assume was a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil, chucking it into The Doctor’s lap as he continued to poke through whatever contents were inside.  

“No room,” The Doctor commented.  The tree, which in reality had to be one of the oldest ones standing on Gallifrey after the war, was completely encircled in roots and rocks.  It wasn’t a comfortable place, but it was out of the harsh sun.

The Master, who had pulled out another sandwich and was opening it very carefully, quipped, “You could sit on my lap.”

“Nice offer, but I think not.”

They ate in silence.  The Doctor tilted his head back, taking small bites from the sandwich occasionally, but mainly watching the branches rustle in the wind.  The patterns they made were beautiful to him.  A long time ago, well, not such a long time ago in the big scheme of things, he and Koschei had sat under the groves of silver trees on days just like this, watching the clouds and listening to the birds, talking about theirs lives and their futures.  Those had been good times.

“What are you thinking about, Thete?”

He looked over at The Master.  The man’s eyes were closed, hands folded neatly on his stomach and head resting on the tree.  In the sunlight, The Doctor could see that he was going gray, and that he needed a haircut.  He could also see that he was still deathly pale, and that the hollows in his cheeks hadn’t filled out at all, only gotten thinner, but he would never mention it.  He turned his head and looked back to the sky.  “How Gallifrey used to be.  It was beautiful.”

“Only on the outside,” The Master shot back immediately.  The Doctor could feel him looking at him now, those eyes burning into the side of his head, and then not anymore as he probably figured out that The Doctor didn’t care if he was going to stare.  “But I suppose it was beautiful for a stupid child who-“

“Didn’t know any better,” The Doctor finished, finally turning to meet The Master’s eyes.  They were troubled, and a bit of color had risen to his cheeks.  Gallifrey wasn’t all good memories for either of them.  In fact, it was more bad than good, but that was one of the differences in between the two of them.  The Doctor focused on the good, or he tried to, and The Master?  Well, he’d always been the more pessimistic of the two, even when they had been children.

After a moment of silence, The Master nodded, taking his turn to look away.  Sometimes, when The Doctor looked at him long and hard, he could still see Koschei.  He had been so full of life, so smart, with a constant grin on his face and spindly hands that were constantly fidgeting.  When they were younger, he used to hold The Doctor's hands as they pressed their foreheads together, and they'd picture all the places they'd want to go, laugh about it and make lists of all the stars they were going to see.  They had tried to put every star on the list, but there had never been enough time.  Gallifrey had beaten the child out of both of them.

More food was exchanged in almost quiet.  They ate, The Doctor occasionally complimenting on The Master’s cooking, or getting up to move his stiff joints on a lap around the tree.  The Master mainly just watched, picking at his food with his legs neatly crossed and head resting on the smooth bark.  If The Doctor hadn’t known him he would’ve thought that he was having a terrible time, but his eyes were content.  That was what mattered to him.

They were out there warming themselves in the shade and watching the sparse clouds until the twin suns began to disappear behind the red mountains.

“Ready to go?” The Doctor asked, looking over at his companion.  They made eye contact, and with a nod, the two of them got to their feet.  The Doctor brushed his coat off, telling The Master, “I’ll carry the basket.”  He took it and they began their walk back.  He noticed a slight jolt in The Master’s step, but he put it down to him being stiff from his long day of sitting under that tree.

By the time they could see the lights of The Doctor’s old home the suns had dipped behind the mountains, turning the skies red and purple and allowing the stars to come out.  They were at the end of the universe; there weren’t too many to see now.  But nonetheless, practically being in the middle of nowhere, they seemed close enough and bright enough to reach out and touch.  He was so busy looking that he didn’t even flinch at The Master taking hold of his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“ _Beautiful, isn’t it?_ ”

It wasn’t a spoken sentence, just a mutual acknowledgement between the two of them.  The Master swung their hands like they were kids again, walking through the fields together and laughing about their grand plans.  But this was a quieter moment, much more intimate.  A shared dream between two men who knew they could never live it always was.  It was like a secret that you could never tell anyone but the other.

“ _I still want to see them with you._ ”  The Master’s mind sparked with something bright and warm, making The Doctor smile as well, the feeling spreading from his fingertips into his chest.  As they walked along their thoughts flowed together, spilling between their linked minds and carrying emotions with them.  The Master was content as they walked along, as was The Doctor.  But, it became more and more apparent that the blonde Time Lord did have a wall up.

“What are you thinking about, Koschei?” The Doctor murmured out loud as they scaled a familiar pile of boulders.  They were nearing the back of the house.

A chuckle, a silent one.  “You,” he spoke after a minute, “I’m thinking about you.  Are you going to be sad when I die?”

The Doctor didn’t like the inflection in his tone, cynical and bitter and…  “Of course I am,” he said, a bit taken aback and trying not to show it so much, “I’m always sad when you’re not with me.  But you'll regenerate, unless of course something entirely catastrophic happens.”

And somehow, that kept The Master from asking anymore questions on the matter.  He just took the picnic basket from The Doctor so he could unlock the front door, and they hustled inside, standing in the silent parlor, lit by a couple of old lamps.  The Master deposited the basket as The Doctor kicked his shoes off.  Very domestic indeed.

“Wasn’t that fun?” The Master chirped after a moment.  The Doctor turned to see him leaning on the door, head cocked to one side and that twinkle in his eye. 

A huff, a nod, and then The Doctor returned the smile coyly, arching his eyebrows and he nodded.  “Yeah, it was.  Master, thank you.”  He took a cautious step forward, standing there stiffly for a second, before leaning down and pulling the shorter man into a hug.  It took a second, but The Master returned it, burrowing his nose into The Doctor’s shoulder.  The Doctor did likewise as they stood there, rubbing the man’s back.  He smelled like dust and sweat.

They stood there for another moment, before The Master whispered, uncomfortably close to his ear now, “Don’t get too lovey-dovey or I might bite.”

And that was his cue to let go.

“Pervert,” The Doctor teased as he shoved him away, but he was still smiling, rubbing a hand through his curls.  

That didn’t seem to deter The Master though.  He sauntered forward, looking at him the way a cat might look at a mouse.  He wrapped his arms around his neck, dragging the two of them close together.  “Thank you,” he nearly purred, "you know, Doctor.  Not to be too forward, but I have the perfect idea on how to end this little date of ours."

The Doctor felt his cheeks turn bright red for the second time today, but he was thoroughly ensnared with the way that The Master was holding him.  “We’re friends,” he informed.  And he did mean it, at least right now.  They were pals, chums, buddies.  Sure, friends normally meant something different for the two of them, but…

Oh, and now in his mental panic he had missed the fact that The Master was kissing him.  Again.  Or maybe he was kissing The Master too?  But this time there was no grief, no delirium, just them as they always were.  _Friends_.

“Friends indeed,” The Master nearly growled as he nipped at The Doctor’s bottom lip, hands tangled firmly into his gray curls.  The Doctor moved his hands, cupping The Master’s face, trailing his thumbs over the thin layer of stubble as he let the smaller man backed him up the stairs, spindly fingers still knotted in his gray hair all the way.

By the time The Doctor woke up it was morning, and weak sunlight was filtering through the heavy blinds.  For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure why he’d suddenly awoken, but then he heard the sound of the retching from The Master’s bathroom.  He sat up, pausing before he cautiously yelled, “Koschei?”

The toilet flushed, the water ran for a moment, and The Master appeared through the door.  He was pale, but not much more so than usual.  He grunted, flopped down on the bed, and buried his face in The Doctor’s exposed stomach, blowing a raspberry, which made The Doctor squirm, but didn’t amuse him in the slightest.

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching down and running his fingers tentatively through the man’s hair, which was more brown and gray than it was blonde now.  It _really_ needed cut.  

“Mmhmm,” The Master replied, flipping himself over and looking up at The Doctor, eyes hooded as he brushed his bleached locks out of his eyes, “I didn’t drink any water with the medicine last night.  I’m okay.”  He reached up and patted, well, more slapped at the side of The Doctor’s face before sitting up, sliding out of bed and pulling his pants on.  “Do you want breakfast?” he asked, scouring for his shirt before throwing that on too, staring expectantly at The Doctor.

After a moment, he nodded, resting his head on the headboard.  “Okay.  Are you sure you’re up to it?”

The Master scoffed at that, rolling his eyes and coming back to the bed, leaning over to plant a purposely sloppy kiss on The Doctor’s cheek.  “I may be dying but I’m not a vegetable.  Get some more sleep, idiot.  If I didn’t feel like frying eggs I wouldn’t.”

And with that, he disappeared out the door, leaving The Doctor tangled in the sheets, unable to see as The Master paused on the stairs, letting out a hacking cough into his handkerchief, studying the speckles of blood that had appeared on it before shoving it back into his pocket and heading to make breakfast, that jolt still in his step.


	5. Chapter 5

The Doctor always tried to convince himself that he was ready for the worst possible outcome of any situation.  He had been trying to do this since he was a boy, and what he was finding was that he was never as prepared as he tried to be, even if he had had plenty of forewarning.  So, when The Master’s downhill finally came, he truly wasn’t ready at all.

It was night, the first night in two weeks that The Doctor had decided to sleep back in Braxiatel’s old bedroom again.  The Master was tossing and turning, once more feverish and wobbly on his legs.  When The Doctor had tried to awaken him, the only reaction he’d gotten was being shoved out of the bed.  It wasn’t a hard shove, so he tried to get back into bed, not wanting to walk through the cold house.  But, voice slurred like he was still half asleep, The Master simply grunted:

“Doctor, get out.”

So, The Doctor did as he was told and headed across the hall, flopping into the bed which he had never bothered to make after he’d started sleeping by his friend’s side.  For awhile he stayed awake, debating going back to make sure that The Master was okay, but deciding that he would only be kicked out again, he rolled over and dozed off into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke it was morning.  The fact that he was sleeping in a different room than usual confused him for a moment, before he remembered the events of the night before.

With a groan he sat up, popping his back with a grimace and standing.  Deciding to just leave his pajama pants and t-shirt on, he ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door, opening it up and walking back across the hall.  He rapped on the door with his knuckles, waited, and then stepped inside.

The room was chilly, just like everywhere else in the house, and The Master was cocooned tightly in the sheets.  The sight of the swath of brown-blonde hair poking out from under the covers reminded him too much of the day he’d found him in that cell, so sick and desperate.  He was still sick, and only getting sicker.  But with a sigh, The Doctor headed forward, sliding himself onto the bed and brushing his fingertip along the exposed side of The Master’s face.

He was incredibly warm, but he moved into The Doctor’s touch, the prickling of a psychic link being established as he slowly woke up.  The Doctor moved his hand, allowing the man to roll over.  In just two weak The Master’s health had taken a plunge that even the real doctors hadn’t expected it to take so soon.  His cheeks and eye sockets were a grey-purple, the rest of his face ghostly pale.  He’d stopped eating too in recent days, only managing to choke down his pills.

He still managed to put on that stupid grin as he looked The Doctor over, and said, voice raspy, “Have a nice night?”  For a moment The Doctor thought that he just didn’t remember kicking him out, but as a hoarse laugh escaped the man’s lips, he knew that he knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Yes, a very nice night without you to kick me,” he replied, shaking his head and chuckling before asking, “do you want to come downstairs with me?”

“Oh, what, so you can carry me like a damsel in distress while you still have the chance?”

The Doctor had already gotten back off the bed, making it over to The Master’s side and untangling him from the covers with a roll of his eyes.  “Don’t you want to spend some time with me before you expire?” he asked, lifting the man’s frail body in his arms and putting on a face that feigned puppy-dog hurt as he headed for the door.

The Master hadn’t been able to carry what little weight he had for the past twenty-four hours or so, but he still had enough strength to bitch about it, so The Doctor figured that taking him out of bed couldn’t do too much harm.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he shouldered the door open, walking down the hall and then down the front staircase, feet scarcely making a sound on the carpet.

The man in his arms seemed to think for a moment, very hard actually, before he decided with a nod, “Like shit.”

That was enough to make The Doctor laugh, and The Master too after a second, as shaky as it was.  Before they reached the bottom of the stairs he seemed exhausted, cheek resting against The Doctor’s chest and breathing ragged.

“Want to lay on the couch?” The Doctor asked, getting an affirmative hum in response.  He rounded the corner into their often frequented sitting room, carefully putting the man down on the old couch.

“Want a blanket, or are you hot?” 

“I’m always hot,” The Master grunted, staring up at him through narrowed eyes, “but more so than usual.”

He broke off with a cough, a little bit of blood on his teeth as he asked, “Can I have some water?”

The Doctor hummed in the back of his throat, nodding and brushing The Master’s hair out of his eyes before backing up a step, lingering for a moment before heading into the kitchen to get that water.

He paused at the sink after grabbing a glass, bracing his elbows on the edge of the sink and running his hands down his face.  How much longer?  It was an unanswerable question, really, but he’d seen enough people die to know when one was going.

The breathing, the paleness, the unwillingness to eat anything…  they were all telltale signs.  But how much longer would he be here before he had to regenerate?  How much longer could The Doctor be here before he couldn’t do it anymore?  Seeing The Master in pain was never something that he wanted.  It had never been.  He had to remind himself that he wasn't the one dying here, as much as it felt like it.  

He pushed the thoughts out of his head as thoroughly as he could, picking up the glass and filling it carefully before heading back into the sitting room, perching himself on the edge of the couch..  

“I can feel you worrying,” The Master grunted as The Doctor propped him up, helping him to drink the water as he tried not to remark on the red staining on the edge of the glass that his friend’s lips left.

A couple sips, and he continued, “I need you to stop it.  It’s making me feel all gucky inside and-“ a pause to cough, “it would really be better if you let me die angry so we can get back to fighting each other like the good friends we are.”

“You’re always angry when I’m around, so you’re not going to have a problem,” The Doctor grunted, pushing at his lips with the glass, “drink your water, idiot.”

He did, silently this time, pulling his head away when he was finished.  With a groan, he rested his cheek on the scratchy fabric of the couch, eyeballing The Doctor.  “I’m not always angry when you’re around.  Sometimes I’m just slightly annoyed or I have a feeling of general inconvenience.”  Maybe sometimes he didn't derive any discomfort from The Doctor at all, but would he ever admit that?  That was as likely as The Doctor ever deciding to once and for all hate The Master.  See?  Impossible.

More coughing ensued.  The Doctor sighed, crouching next to the couch now.  “You really shouldn’t be talking this much, Koschei.”

“Why?” he asked, “it’s not like taking a vow of silence is going to keep my insides from turning to-“ a cough, “soup!”  And a groan as he closed his eyes.  He’d worn himself out, again.

The Doctor sighed, and ordered quietly, “Get some rest,” before he got up and headed over to his chair, curling up in it with a book.

In the next couple hours he had to get up twice.  Once to throw a blanket over The Master as he shivered like he was freezing to death, and another time to hold the man’s frail body as he was wracked with another one of those seizures.

He shook and shook, red and white spittle forming on the edges of his blue lips as energy crackled off of him.  It only lasted for thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity before he stoped, gasping as The Doctor rubbed his arms.  His body, arms and legs and face mostly, flashed, revealing glimpses of his arteries and skeleton, and he cried.  The Doctor had no damn idea what this had to feel like, but The Master's body was breaking down.  It had to be hell.

By nightfall, The Doctor had had to make the call.  

“He’s upstairs,” he said as the woman from before arrived, leading the way through the darkened foyer and upwards, through the hall, and then into the room where he’d laid him.

The Master was in what seemed to be a state of delirium.  His eyes darted around unseeingly as the doctor and The Doctor stood over him, the former checking his vitals with her array of advanced medical gadgets.  The Master tried to fight her the best he could, but she kept on working, not seeming as unnerved as before.  Was it because she knew them now, or because she knew that no one in The Master's state could pose her a threat?

After a moment she finished, glancing up and explaining, “All the functions normally present with regeneration are occurring or are ready to occur.  Now we just have to wait.”

And they did.  The Doctor brought them chairs from Braxiatel's room and they sat in relative silence, the only thing breaking it The Master’s cries and the sounds that an old house would make.

“Doctor!” he called at one point, almost screamed.  The called rose and held one of his grasping hands, speaking softly as the man on the bed continued to writhe in agony, brushing his other hand down his clammy, greying cheek.

“I’m here,” he whispered.  It was clear that The Master couldn’t see him.  He looked past him, eyes glazed and mouth moving wordlessly.  He wondered if he could see anything at all.

“Doctor!” he yelled again, face contorted in pain.  The Doctor almost flinched backwards, but he held fast, staring down as Koschei's bloodshot eyes filled with tears, and he kicked at the sheets, beginning to chant a terrible, frightened mantra.  “Don’t leave, don’t leave, not again, not again…”  He trailed off, shaking his head no as more bloody froth appeared around his lips.

Sighing, The Doctor wiped it away.  “I’m here,” he replied, squeezing The Master's hand in his, knowing full well he probably wasn’t aware of it.  But he was there.  He wasn’t going to leave him to regenerate all alone.

It took a couple more hours, until the sun was peeking over the mountains in the distance, for the actual regeneration to start.  The doctor noticed it first, standing up and flipping over The Master’s limp hand, making the golden energy beginning to trickle off of it visible.

The Doctor stood as well, watching as she backed up to his side, and The Master soon gasped, his entire body jerking as some of the light curled out of the corners of his gaping mouth.

Watching the process was always hard.  The Master’s cries became more and more pained until they were nearly unbearable to listen to.  The energy swirled, engulfing him and flowing off of his body, off of the bed to where it dissipated on the floor.  

The room got brighter and brighter until both of the doctors were looking away, shielding their eyes as there was a piercing scream, a flash, and then a silence.  The Doctor was the first to take his hand away, letting out a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding.  There, on the bed, very small in her previous regeneration’s clothes, was Missy.

He cautiously stepped forward, but she appeared unconscious, cheek resting on the sweat-soaked cheeks and eyes closed.  Her hair was all in her face, and he cautiously brushed it away before moving to allow the actual doctor to perform her scans.

“Everything is functioning normally,” she said, “including their regenerative properties.”  She smiled softly, nodding to The Doctor and even letting him shake her hand, “I’ll leave you two.”

And she was gone.  The Doctor was once again alone, now with Missy, still unconscious and breathing softly on what had once been his bed.  He was about to say something to try to rouse her when his screwdriver vibrated in his jacket.

He pulled it out in confusion, looking at the readings, looking at her, looking at the readings…  someone was calling him from Mendorax Dellora.  Who?  He didn’t know, but in simple terms his screwdriver told him that it had something to do with his timeline, and that it was urgent.

The Doctor shifted from one foot to the other, a grimace forming on his face as he remembered what Missy had said to him when they'd first met, all that venom in her eyes as she backed him past those tanks.

_The one you abandoned, Doctor.  The one you left for dead._

Oh god.  It had already happened.  There was no changing it now.  He had left.  He hadn't left her for dead but...  how could she know that?  He couldn't call someone to come and stay with her, to tell her that he had been here.  She wouldn't be safe, and it was damn well true that they'd wouldn't be either.

With a deep breath, he bent down, planting a kiss on her forehead, smoothing her hair and moving a pillow so that it propped her up.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he breathed, forehead connecting with hers for a moment as he took a deep breath, listening to the beeping now emanating from the screwdriver.  “I have to go.  I’m so, so sorry.”

He stood, adjusting his coat, making sure he had everything, and turning to walk out the door.  Forcing himself not to look back was the hardest part as he went down the stairs, leaving his key to the house at the base of the coatrack before opening the door and stepping out into the crisp morning air.

The birds were chirping.  The sun was creeping through the blinds.  The Master had died with a friend, their only friend.  But as The Doctor began across the desert, sunglasses perched on his nose to hide stinging tears of frustration and anger, he knew he couldn't stop.  As much as his hearts wanted to, he couldn't go back to her.  As much as he wished it wasn't the truth, he'd never been good at staying in one place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This is the first thing that has actually brought me pleasure to write in a long time.
> 
> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated. I want to know what you thought!
> 
> Thank you again, and happy reading!


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